


most beloved

by tentatively



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Canon Era, Emotionally Constipated Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Good morgana, Gwaine Being Gwaine, Jealous Arthur, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Pining Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur, Scruffy Arthur, Scruffy Arthur Pendragon, achilles/patroclus parallels, arthur wants to look greek y'all, homer references, iliad references, so soft, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23930986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentatively/pseuds/tentatively
Summary: At first, it hadn’t crossed his mind- not really- that Merlin may have such a distinct and specific taste in men. It had all fallen into place when one fateful afternoon, Merlin spoke about some Greek hero, some ancient, Hellenic lad by the name of Achilles.or,In which Arthur wants to look like Achilles to win Merlin's heart, but of course, he's missing the whole point.Written for Scruffy Pendragon Fest 2020.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 660
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	most beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin being an Iliad fanboy? Yes!

Arthur had noticed a pattern, or rather, a _type_ , really.

At first, it hadn’t crossed his mind- not really- that Merlin may have such a distinct and specific taste in men. It had all fallen into place when one fateful afternoon, Merlin spoke about some _Greek_ hero, some ancient, Hellenic lad by the name of Achilles.

He recalled the one time he and Merlin had travelled beyond the borders of Camelot, undercover, into Escetir under Uther’s command; they had come across a young fellow in one of the hamlets. _What was his name?_ Oh, right, _Basil_. Basil was tall and lanky, broad-shouldered with athletic limbs. His lashes were more graceful than a woman’s and his eyes were an enigmatic shade of grey. His hair was an unbelievable shade of golden and it reached well below his neck; long, sunny locks of his hair would _oh-so-carelessly_ fall on his face while he would speak and Arthur remembered, begrudgingly, how hopelessly enchanted Merlin was.

Arthur did not understand what it was about Basil that had beguiled Merlin so as to swoon at every word that escaped his lips. But he was a good lad and he helped them to discover whatever plan Cenred was possibly planning to hatch against Camelot. Arthur truly believed that part of Basil’s benevolence and compassion was merely an excuse to blatantly flirt with an already enraptured Merlin.

On another instance, Arthur recalled, they had been in the middle of an encounter with mercenaries and a farmer from Camelot who, unfortunately, found himself in the scrimmage, was gravely wounded by a poisonous arrow to his left shoulder. Quite naturally, Arthur proposed that the man be taken to Gaius immediately if he were to be saved. Except, Merlin stepped in and in a somewhat reprimanding tone, said, “Arthur, he will die if he is to be taken to Camelot now. I can easily heal this.” Wordlessly, Arthur let Merlin do his incantation _voo-doo_ on him, and surely, the ugly gash looked a lot prettier in a span of only a few minutes.

He was called Adrian.

Adrian was muscular and well-built; his cheekbones seemed almost sculpted. His hair was a mix of brown and black and its length crossed even his shoulders. He had some facial hair, too, well-maintained and fashionably kept, Arthur had noticed. Arthur had also noticed, displeasingly, how Merlin beamed every time Adrian muttered something as base as a _thank you_.

Oh, well. Now it made sense to Arthur. “ _Achilles_ ,” Arthur contemplated on the taste of the word. “Who is this gentleman, again?”

“He is the protagonist hero of a very ancient and classical poem by a Greek man called Homer,” Merlin answered, as he untied the knots of Arthur’s white tunic before the prince could go to bed. “He was god-born and immortal. It is said that he moved as swiftly as a river in its mountainous course; he was invincible in battle.”

“So,” Arthur began, thoughtfully locking eyes with his ridiculously smart manservant. “He never dies?”

“Oh, of course, he does, they all die, Arthur,” Merlin softly chuckled, as if Arthur had asked an absurd question. “Achilles’ death is at the same time infuriating and tragic.”

“This man,” Arthur started again. “Did he actually exist?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Merlin shrugged, but clearly it was a subject of high interest to him. “I like to believe he did,” Merlin added a moment later, smiling sweetly at Arthur, making the prince go all weak and mushy.

“Why?”

Merlin looked up at him, and with fervent eyes, answered, “When Achilles fought, it was like magic; two, four, ten enemies- all dead, effortlessly. His speed was godly, his broad limbs moved along with the wind and his long, golden hair would fly and then settle on his mighty shoulders. Achilles fought for his love, because he was scared to lose _Patroclus_ and himself. Achilles was immortal and yet, the most human of them all.”

Arthur decided that Merlin looked even lovelier, even more beautiful when he spoke of things that he loved. Arthur was sure that he must have stared at him in an enamoured gaze and made a complete clown of himself. Merlin laughed softly as he finished his explanation, nudging the prince, “Now go to sleep, Sire. I’m sure that was too much for your brain to take.”

Arthur could have said so many things. Really, _so many_. He could have been vocal about how enthralled he was at Merlin’s knowledge of the pagan classics, or the fact that the man very obviously knew ancient Greek, and that made Arthur wonder how many more such old languages his manservant knew, or he could have _kissed_ Merlin in the heat of a passionate moment, as he had often heard Morgana remark _. The moment, Arthur, it is all about the right moment._

But Arthur was a dollophead, and assertive about every other thing in his life except when it came to _feelings_.

So, he did exactly what Merlin told him to do. Go to sleep.

 _Well, damn you, Arthur Pendragon_.

* * *

But Arthur could not get Achilles out of his head.

He recalled everything Merlin had spoken of, and in his mind, Arthur kept cancelling out the characteristics of the Grecian hero that matched with him as well.

 _Brilliant in battle_ \- Arthur was close to invincible in battle as well, but he wasn’t a god-born and that couldn’t be helped.

 _Swift, elusive moves and tactics_ \- once again, it was revolving around battling styles and if there was one thing Arthur had faith in (aside from Merlin, of course), it was his skilful sword-handling.

He glanced at his shoulders and limbs and arrived at the conclusion that he was definitely _very well-built_ , no question about that.

So, what did that leave him with? _Golden hair?_ Arthur was a distinguishable blonde. But-

 _Long,_ golden hair?

Maybe not.

But in his defence, a prince never really got the opportunity to ponder on hair prospects, always having someone else take care of it. He had never seen his father grow his hair out and had lived with the idea that a man must have a _certain_ length of hair which never exceeded below the neck.

In the afternoon, after training with the knights, he caught a glimpse of Morgana leaving the throne room, and immediately posed his question.

“What do you think of...Greek men?”

Morgana was naturally taken aback by the sudden, _un-Arthur_ question, but Morgana being Morgana, it was soon replaced by a devious smirk and before answering his question, she asked one of her own, “Is this about Merlin?”

Arthur closed his eyes, and gritting his teeth, said, “Yes. Now tell me.”

“Is it Merlin’s type?” Morgana grinned smugly. 

Arthur drew an annoyed breath in before answering, “ _Perhaps_. Now, can you tell me?”

“Greek men,” Morgana mused, clasping her hands together. “They are noble, and heroic, and so classical.”

 _“Classical?”_ Arthur questioned, bemused.

“You know, olive-skinned, chiselled facial bones, long, flowy hair,” Morgana said. “Sculpture-like.”

“I am noble, heroic,” Arthur rambled, more to himself than to Morgana. “I have _considerably_ good looks, and that’s being modest,”- at which Morgana snickered- “I just need to grow out my hair and make it _flowy_.”

“This is going to be a long and harrowing trial, dear brother,” Morgana challengingly smirked. “I can only hope you succeed against men who are famed to have fought down gods.”

“They’re only myths, Morgana,” Arthur countered, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, you philistine,” Morgana said, shaking her head, and walking off towards a smiling Gwen in the distance.

* * *

Two weeks later, nobles from all over the land assembled in Camelot for a royal feast organized by Uther. They were lords, their wives and children who came on shining steeds with gracious presents for the king. This was the kind of crowd Merlin _despised_.

Merlin despised them even more, perhaps because the arrival of such important dignitaries lessened the time he usually spent with Arthur, bickering after him, or just in plain banter when unbeknownst to the prince, Merlin would sneak a glance at Arthur’s focused eyes while writing something down of state importance, or how he shivered at the slightest touch to his collarbones when Merlin dressed him- and often, Merlin wondered whether such a reaction was exclusive to the subtle touches of Merlin’s fingers, but he usually dismissed them- or the adorably curious gaze of Arthur’s eyes when Merlin said something he had no clue about.

God, he was so besotted with Arthur it wasn’t even funny anymore.

If anything, the realization pained him- a man of Arthur’s standing would never like him _romantically_ \- it would be nothing more than wishful thinking.

But of course, more nobles in the castle meant more, unlisted chores for Merlin, who found most of these men despicable and conceited who had no care for those outside of the nobility. Gwaine detested these men as much as Merlin, if not more, and often, he and Merlin messed with their _sophisticated_ drinks by contaminating them with an unholy amount of _unsophisticated_ ale or mead, and have the noblemen make a comedic scene of themselves in the kingliness of the throne room.

“Princess hates not getting your attention,” Gwaine said, leaning against the wall beside Merlin. Merlin rolled his eyes, muttering, “Right,” before shifting his attention from a noble lady’s goblet to the honey-haired knight.

“Oh, would you look at that?” Gwaine mumbled under his breath, but loud enough for Merlin to hear. Following his gaze, Merlin found Percival chatting with a lady. “He looks fine, doesn’t he?”

Merlin cackled, “I’m sure he can feel your lustful gaze from _there_.”

“Let him,” Gwaine said, downing the drink at once. “This once, I’m not going to be the one who does the asking.”

A dark haired, round-faced man beckoned to Merlin and he straightened his blue tunic before lifting the jug and walking towards him. “I need a refill, boy,” he cheerily said, patting Merlin on the back. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Merlin, sire,” he said, pouring drink into his cup.

“I’m Lord Albert,” he said, a lewd grin forming on his lips. Merlin smiled back uneasily, a tight knot forming inside him. He knew men like Albert, lords like Albert who used the power of their position, rather exploited it to meet their pleasures. Without a further word, Merlin began to withdraw, hoping Lord Albert would get the hint. But as it was with such men, Albert grabbed Merlin’s wrist when the boy was beginning to turn around and walk away, and Merlin clenched his jaw in apprehension of what was coming. “What is the hurry, _Merlin_ ,” Merlin was revolted at the way Albert emphasized on his name but sporting a nonchalant smile, he said, “Oh, it is nothing, my lord.” Albert jerked him forward and ran a hand up to Merlin’s elbow.

Merlin balled his fists in rage, at his inability to thrash the animal on the floor with his magic. Albert’s fingers curled up the fabric of his cloth and they started hovering above Merlin’s elbow, tauntingly.

Merlin still had his eyes clenched shut when he felt the lewd fingers being jerked away from his arm and- _Arthur_ \- Lord, bless him- appearing in between them. “I hope you’re enjoying the feast, my dear Albert,” Arthur icily said, clutching Albert’s shoulder in an iron grip. Albert sputtered, “Y-Yes, yes, Sire,” and for the rest of the evening, he didn’t dare even look at Merlin.

Arthur, enraged and concerned, pulled Merlin aside. “Are you all right? That man, I swear to God, he will never-”

“Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin tenderly laughed. “He didn’t do anything- or rather, he couldn’t because you noticed my plight just in time.”

“I cannot believe his audacity,” Arthur’s eyes turned back at the man, luridly. “The next time anything even remotely like this happens, you will call me. I don’t care if it is against decorum.”

Merlin smiled shyly, and he was sure that a crimson blush was creeping up his cheeks. He stared at the sea-blue eyes of the prince and saw the determination and fury in them. A lock of golden hair had fallen on Arthur’s face, casting a languid shadow. As irresistible was the urge to tenderly remove it, Merlin suddenly noticed a change in the character of his hair. Arthur was still glaring at Albert when Merlin noted the untrimmed stubble lining Arthur’s chin and jaws and the considerable growth of his hair.

“Arthur.”

“What?”

“I hadn’t noticed your hair.”

“Oh.”

Was that disappointment Merlin heard in his voice? _Well, of course not_. He was probably angry that Merlin hadn’t paid enough attention to the decency of his get up.

“I’m sorry, Sire, I’ve just been so busy these last few days with all these arrangements, it really skipped my notice.”

Arthur grinned, biting his lip. “Actually, I kept it this way by choice.”

“You did?” Merlin asked, stupefied. A sinking feeling settled in his chest that maybe Arthur was trying to _impress_ somebody. For lack of anything better and to mask the crestfallen look on his face, he said, “Who is the lucky girl?” in a playful, whispering tone.

Arthur just stood there, stoically, barely restraining himself from blurting out, _it’s not a woman; it’s you, you utter clotpole_.

* * *

“Do you see yourself as Patroclus?” Arthur asked one morning, a few days after the feast, while Merlin was intently dressing him. Arthur always found Merlin’s inherent sincerity in even the most trivial tasks endearing. Merlin’s eyes shot up and with a little chuckle, he said, “That depends on whether you see yourself as Achilles.”

“Let’s say I did,” Arthur said, raising a brow.

“Remind me why we’re talking about this again,” Merlin said, slightly bewildered. “Since when do you interest yourself in literature?”

“I, uh,” Arthur desperately looked for the right words to say. “I just happened to think that their dynamic is quite similar to ours.”

Merlin chortled, brushing off the non-existent dirt from Arthur’s shoulders. “No, Arthur,” he said. “They were _lovers_.”

Arthur bit his lip, dishearteningly gobsmacked at how easily Merlin dismissed it off. Of course, Arthur _knew_ they were lovers. He thought he would be very subtly dropping a hint by saying that, only he hadn’t anticipated Merlin to so brutally crush his advances. “Y-Yes. But he was Achilles’ confidante, too, right?”

“That he was, Arthur,” Merlin smiled softly, straightening Arthur’s tunic.

“Yes. So. That’s what I was talking about. _Obviously_.” Arthur almost internally smacked himself. _Obviously not_. He was making such a prat of himself.

“Right,” Merlin mumbled, silently enjoying Arthur’s flushed face. “And you’re ready, Sire.”

“Yes, thank you, Merlin.” His own voice betrayed him as it came out small and defeated.

“And Arthur?” Merlin’s voice stopped him in his tracks, and he craned his head back to look at Merlin, who was shifting his gaze from his feet to his hands and then finally locked them with Arthur.

“Yes?”

“I would die for you, as Patroclus had died for Achilles,” Merlin earnestly said, a fondness wrapping his eyes.

And once again, Arthur could not get the right words out at the right time, being the pathetic dollophead that he was.

 _Such a fucking idiot, Pendragon_.

* * *

“Geoffrey,” Arthur knocked at the library that night, calling on the old, wise librarian. Geoffrey looked up from an old, red book to find the prince of Camelot standing at the doorway. “Oh, come in, Sire, please.”

Arthur trotted ahead and seated himself on a chair. “What is it that you need, Sire?” Geoffrey asked, and Arthur could tell that the old librarian was slightly confused to have the prince in his haven of books at that late an hour.

“Homer,” Arthur said.

 _“Homer?”_ Geoffrey repeated, not sure he had heard correctly.

“Yes, Homer,” Arthur said, ticked at everyone picking on his lack of literary knowledge _. “Iliad.”_

“I’m sure you know you it is in ancient Greek, Sire,” Geoffrey remarked, standing up, and possibly walking towards the rack that contained the book.

Arthur sighed. He knew, of course.

“I do, Geoffrey.”

“So, am I to assume that you mysteriously learnt the language without anyone’s notice and a teacher?” Geoffrey asked. He was among the few people at the castle who could address the prince in such an informal manner, having been one of the oldest of the castle, and having served as Arthur’s teacher through most of his boyhood.

_“Geoffrey.”_

“Or does it have anything to do with Merlin having borrowed and read this book a few months back?”

 _How many people knew?_ Arthur buried his face in the conjunction of his hands. “Perhaps.”

“And?”

“Could you tell me about Achilles and Patroclus?” Arthur asked, hoping Geoffrey wouldn’t question the prince’s sudden interest or motive. Thankfully for Arthur, the librarian took a step back and seated himself across Arthur. “If you wish so, Sire, why not.”

“How do all of you know ancient Greek?” Arthur asked, marvelled.

“The ancients were a wise and knowledgeable nation, my lord,” Geoffrey said. “We cannot discredit it, or ignore it because the fools of today think it is irrelevant. There is much that these men teach us, much that is priceless.”

Arthur hummed in response. He looked around the cupboards and wondered inwardly just how many secrets of the world and of the men of this world were huddled up in those worn out, thick books.

“Achilles was a hero, a demigod as they say,” Geoffrey began. “And Patroclus was his closest friend, his counsel, and what many like me believe, his lover as well.”

Geoffrey continued. “Their love was boundless, and it was cursed, much like Achilles’ fate. Patroclus was an exiled prince, exiled because his manner wasn’t princely enough. In Troy, Patroclus would heal and look after the wounded while Achilles fought his regular battles. This went on for ten years- for ten years before the Greeks turned on Achilles for not slaughtering the mightiest of the Trojans- Hector, and mind you, only Achilles could kill him. But what the lot of them did not know was that Achilles’ fate was intrinsically connected to that of Hector. Hector’s death would push Achilles towards his own death. So, the Grecian hero kept evading it so that he didn’t have to die.”

“Really?” Arthur’s face scrunched up. “He is an immortal, illustrious hero, carrying everyone’s hopes and dreams, and he is scared of _death_?”

Geoffrey lowly chuckled and Arthur realized that with the wisdom of his years, he probably thought differently. “That is what makes Achilles so human, Arthur. He wanted to live. He wanted to love.”

“Then, what changed?”

“Everything,” Geoffrey sighed, sadly, and Arthur keenly felt that the tale of the _Iliad_ was as close to the old librarian as it was to Merlin. “Patroclus proposed to go into battle dressed up as Achilles when he saw that the hero was unwilling, stubborn and uncaring of the spiteful things that the Greeks were saying about him. Patroclus went into battle and...he was killed. By Hector.”

Arthur was riled up. “Why would that idiot send his lover into battle knowing that warring isn’t his forte?”

“Patroclus could be stubborn if he wanted to,” Geoffrey said. “It wasn’t as if Achilles was willing to send him into battle. But the boy went, and had a spear pushed through his abdomen.”

“And?”

“Achilles wept. He wept and he shrieked in mad agony, grief consuming him entirely,” Geoffrey explained with a sombre look on his face. “Nobody could stop him now. He would tear Hector apart, piece by piece. And he did. After slaughtering Hector, he dragged his fallen body through the blood-stained battlefield of Troy. He was struck with rage and grief.”

Arthur was silent. He had asked Merlin whether he thought of himself as Patroclus, but now he realized that he would never, ever consciously send Merlin to his death- _no_ , he would take a thousand arrows before he would let an enemy touch his beloved. _His beloved._

He was sure Achilles had felt the same for Patroclus and yet, he had been doomed.

“Achilles deliberately pushed himself towards his own death because he wished for it now- now that Patroclus was gone,” Geoffrey said, flashing a tiny, sad smile, indicating the end of his tale.

Arthur understood that; he knew he’d definitely have done the same.

Geoffrey then opened the book, flipping through the pages, and occasionally smiling at some parts; the way one smiled knowingly at familiar faces. “Do you know what Patroclus was called?”

Arthur eyed him intently, meaning for him to answer his question. “ _Philtatos_ \- meaning, most beloved.”

* * *

_Philtatos. Most beloved._

To Arthur, that meant Merlin.

As if, in a similar turn of events, Camelot found itself in near-war state with Cenred’s Escetir. Basil had been caught and all had gone downhill for Camelot. Arthur blamed himself for underestimating his enemy, assuming that he had seen the end of the matter.

Well, of course, he had been mistaken.

Cenred’s men murdered a number of Camelot’s border patrols and then ferociously advanced towards the mighty city.

Camelot was burning. The knights were dying. The citizens were running aimlessly, looking for refuge. The ones who tried to flee met with a ghastly end. King Uther Pendragon was lying bed, ill.

Arthur could not stop thinking of the ten-year long battle of Troy. Geoffrey’s words kept ringing in his ears and it caused him to steal a glance at Merlin every now and then, just to ensure that he was safe.

Because Lord knew that the world was yet to see an even madder lunacy from prince Arthur Pendragon if someone dared to harm Merlin.

“Sire, we have been able to crush the northern advance,” Leon informed, entering a bedlam of a castle. Arthur, covered in sweat and blood, nodded. “But the resistance towards the south has been futile, my lord.”

 _That is because Cenred himself is leading that group of soldiers_ , Arthur bitterly thought. “It’s alright, I’ll-”

“Arthur, I’ll go,” Merlin said, with that vigorous resolution in his eyes. “I can stop them.”

“No,” Arthur blurted out, without even sparing it a thought. “I am _not_ letting you go alone to face an army led by Cenred himself.”

“This isn’t the time to argue, Arthur,” Merlin persisted. “Too many men have already died. Camelot has a realistic chance at victory if only the southern advance can be broken.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” Arthur said, eyes boring into Merlin challengingly.

“What if you were to die?” Merlin rebuked, twisting his face.

“What if _you_ were to die?” Arthur shot back, incredulously.

Merlin sighed, gritting his teeth. “You know the stakes here, Arthur. Don’t be a child. You are to be _king_ in the coming times.”

“Are you honestly suggesting I send you to your guaranteed death?” Arthur questioned, pushing Merlin back against a wall. “I am no king if I send my closest friend to face an army of hundreds, knowing that there is every chance he may not survive it.”

“I understand how you feel, Arthur,” Merlin said, swallowing a breath, clenching and unclenching his jaws to hide how frightened he truly felt. “But please, for the love of Camelot, you must make this hard decision.”

“Why can’t I come with you?” Arthur argued, feeling overwhelmed with the weight of the situation crumbling on him.

“Because there will be too many men and I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to simultaneously fight them _and_ protect you,” Merlin yelled, feeling hollowed out. “And because you’re the future king of Camelot and yours is the last life that is expendable.”

“Merlin, you don’t understand,” Arthur desperately said, clutching Merlin’s shoulders tightly. “I cannot afford to lose you.”

A moment of silence passed between them, which seemed too grow thicker by the second. Merlin cracked it, saying, “I’m sure you’ll get at least one manservant in Camelot who excels in his _surly retorts_.” Merlin chuckled, trying to lighten the air but he was startled when he saw Arthur’s eyes glistening. “Arthur, I-”

“I will _not_ send you into a perilous battle like Achilles had sent Patroclus,” Arthur resolutely said. “Not while I’m alive and breathing.”

Merlin smiled, despondently, before adding, “But remember, they were-”

“ _Lovers,_ I know,” Arthur finished for him, staring hopelessly at Merlin. _Did this man understand nothing?_ “Merlin, I love you.”

Merlin gaped at the blonde prince for an unaccounted span of seconds. “I-uh,” he spoke, but his voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper. He drew an uneven breath. His mind was too muddled to process Arthur’s words. “I-I didn’t know that.”

* * *

Arthur and Merlin had marched together to face the southern troops led by the king of Escetir. Arthur found out that he may have underestimated the extent of Merlin’s strength. The thin, gangly, beautiful boy had killed hundreds with only a few magical words, and then another hundred with a few more. Cenred and Arthur had been engaged in a duel of swords, and though Cenred was ferocious, he was nowhere near as skilled a swordsman as Arthur.

With their king dead, Escetir was as good as defeated.

Arthur’s first concern after winning the battle was the well-being of his compatriots and knights. He rushed into the castle which was virtually serving as a sanctuary to all those wounded. Merlin followed after Arthur, the revelation of the latter’s feelings finally starting to settle within him _. Did he really mean that? Or did he say that to prevent me from going into battle alone?_

The latter seemed rather unlikely of Arthur and yet the former was too dreamlike to believe. Arthur released a sigh of relief to find Sir Leon seemingly doing fine, Elyan lying down with a slash on his chest but it sure wasn’t too deep. Gwaine and Lancelot had a few cuts, too, but they were mostly harmless. Sir Percival was finishing up the last of Cenred’s minions, still quite unscathed. Then, his gaze flitted to Sir Bedivere who seemed distraught but Arthur could see that there weren’t any malign scars on him. Stepping forward, he found a gasping, bleeding Sir Kay lying on a cot, letting out a cry of pain every time Gaius applied a salve. “Kay,” Arthur’s voice wavered as he knelt down beside his knight. “Gaius, will he survive?”

Gaius did not soften the blow. “I cannot be sure before morning, Sire. He has lost a lot of blood already.”

“Kay,” Arthur breathed out, holding his trembling arms. “You can make this, I know it. I believe in you, Sir Kay.”

Kay nodded chivalrously, his face wet with tears. Bedivere and Kay had always been rather close. Arthur wondered how broken he must be feeling, having his closest confidante battling death. Arthur wondered what he would do if he ever lost Merlin, if he would ever have to find Merlin like this, bleeding to death, while he watched most helplessly. He wondered if he, too, would drag the perpetrator’s body through the battlegrounds most humiliatingly, to calm the fire of grief in his heart.

He shook his head quickly, abandoning the thought. Merlin was right there. He was safe.

And then, the _trembling_ , scathing realization dawned on him that he had revealed the feelings of his heart to Merlin, and Merlin hadn’t said anything.

_Merlin didn’t love him._

Arthur stood up, heart heavy with the weight of a thousand skies, to face Merlin.

“Merlin, you don’t have to feel pressured just because I said _those_ things,” Arthur said, his eyes downcast.

But there was a mysterious glint in those blue eyes of the warlock. “Did you mean it?” he asked, expression unreadable.

“Yes, I meant every word, Merlin,” Arthur said, deciding to let him know all about his feelings so that they could get over it, forget it, and go back to being _Arthur and Merlin_. “I meant it. I have loved you for a ridiculously long amount of time now.”

Arthur was expecting a grave nod, or a customary smile, but instead, Merlin broke into a fit of laughter, and he covered his mouth as he did so. Arthur stared, dumbfounded, and the sickening feeling inside his stomach growing. _What the hell was he laughing for?_

“What is it?” Arthur asked, feeling slightly dejected. “What is so funny, Merlin?”

Merlin shook his head, as if disbelieving some prior idea which had been proven otherwise. “I’m laughing because I cannot believe this is happening. I’m laughing because I have been _so_ madly in love with you for the longest amount of time, fully believing that no way in hell would you ever reciprocate my feelings that I don’t know how to handle this now.”

And suddenly, in the midst of laughing, Merlin’s eyes watered and he pursed his lips. “I love you, you absolute _dollophead_ ,” Merlin whispered, and he laughed happily, raggedly, and he kept repeating it, as if in a trance.

Merlin didn’t move, it seemed like he couldn’t, so Arthur edged closer and smashed his lips against Merlin’s, hands creasing the fabric of Merlin’s blue tunic. _It is all about the right moment_. Merlin’s unsure hands snaked around his waist more hesitatingly, but he held on, and he held on tight. “How have we been _so_ stupid,” Arthur laughed, still holding Merlin in his arms, his heart happily beating faster than it ever had before.

“You should have said something,” Merlin offered his adorable crinkly-eyed smile, poking at Arthur’s chest.

“Do you know,” Arthur began, laughing inwardly at the most ridiculous things he had done just to get Merlin’s attention. “I grew out my hair so that I’d look more like Achilles. Imagine.”

“Why in the world would you want to look like Achilles?” Merlin chuckled, raising an eyebrow.

“Because you’re _so_ in love with Grecian men,” Arthur said, wording it out making the whole idea seem even stupider.

“Do you know what it is that I love about Achilles the most?”

“What?”

“It isn’t his long hair or his broad, manly features. It is merely the fact that he loved- he _loved_ so hard. He was full of love and he was willing to go to the farthest lengths for it, even after having lost it. That is what I love about Achilles. He loves and he laments. He laments because he loves.”

Arthur looked at Merlin brightly. “So, _am_ I your Achilles?”

“No, you’re _Arthur_ ,” Merlin said. “Because you love even harder.”

And he kissed him again. And again, and again. Camelot’s knights howled in victory and Arthur resonated with them with his heart’s soaring, leaping in joy.

He had Merlin in his arms.

His _philtatos. Most beloved._

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought? x
> 
> say hi on [tumblr](https://yourstrulyhenry.tumblr.com) !


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